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Even if you're not an angler, I highly recommend taking the time to read this story. It comes from Mikey Wier, a professional snowboarder and fly fishing guide who founded Burl Productions. Mikey's words are thick with the aura of appreciation that comes from having just returned from a Wilderness area. As you read this tale, there's a good chance you'll think back on your last trip into untamed nature and begin to relive the feeling while sitting in front of your computer -- a wonderful thing indeed. From Mikey:

It’s 6 am and I’m going over a mental checklist of things I “need” to survive in the wilderness for a few days. I’m always afraid I might forget one of the things that will make me think "oh, crap" later. Headlamp, camera battery, bivy sack, enough food. We’re on the road at 6:30 and by then it’s too late to worry any more. The cold morning air fills my lungs and colors my breath into cloudy vapors. Speeding along in a car, the outside world passes fast. Even while looking out the window, it’s easy to miss the small details, like a bug crawling on a branch, or a salamander swimming in a creek pool. I can’t wait to reach the trail head. I’ve been indoors too much this month and my body longs for the sun and crisp air. It’s the call of the wild.

[All photos by Justin Baillie]

Time in the car passes with catch up conversations between my brother, Eugene and I. Justin Baillie, who made the drive from Tahoe to Southern Oregon with me the day before, was just getting to know Eugene. We shared the research each one of us had done in preparation for the trip. Eugene produced some great photos he had printed off of Goggle Earth. We looked over the topography and bends in the river. It looked passable on paper. Conditions and circumstances had already thwarted us from reaching the headwaters on two different attempts.

On our first attempt at the pass, it rained all day as we hiked the
four miles up hill for the first accent. Eugene and I spent the night
under just a tarp in some of the hardest rain I had ever seen. I kind
of slept for a while in a two-inch puddle of water. In the morning we
could hear the river roaring all the way down at the bottom of the
canyon. We knew we wouldn’t be able to cross the river, let alone the
first trib. There was no point in going down, so we turned around and
hiked back down the pass in the rain. It’s a tricky window of weather
and water conditions you need to be able to penetrate that deep into
the wilderness this time of year. It’s hard when you have to just look
at the calendar and pick a date. It’s especially tough when that window
is usually only a week or two, at most, in February, for the entire
coastal range.

On our second attempt, Eugene and I decided we might be able to try
hiking up the main stem of the river to reach the headwaters. The
problem with this route is a large, major creek drainage that pushes
hard on high water. In '05, we mapped out a route and gave it a try in
the first week of March. Again, strong rains got the best of us. We
found the trailhead, but spent the night in the car park under a tarp
in the pouring rain. The next morning we made the couple-mile hike to
the river, but it was too high and off color to find fish in a new spot
with fly gear. We barely made the crossing on the first small drainage
and figured there was no way we could make the confluence.

By this time around it had become a bit of a personal goal for both
Eugene and I to reach this zone. So even after hearing a couple
nightmare hiking stories of sleeping in puddles and hiking all day up
hill in the rain, Justin still agreed to come along.

On paper, the river conditions looked good. Flows were right, but
the forecast was calling for some precipitation during night two of our
four-day mission. How much would be our main hurdle. As we turned off
the 101, the estuary and lower river looked great. The sun was shining
and all the plants were green, wet and happy.

As the road turned from pavement to dirt, we all turned our phones
off at the same time as if part of some ceremony celebrating wilderness
and it’s disconnection with the outside world. Not far down the road it
became apparent that something was very different from the last time
Eugene and I had driven the road two years earlier. There were trees
down everywhere. In some places as many as one in five trees were down.
There were bay, alder, fir and live canyon oak trees covering parts of
the road. On the lower areas of the river, where fishing is popular,
the trees covering the road had been cut away with chain saws. We
continued on, hoping for the best.

After a while the road leaves the river valley and starts heading up
the hill towards the summit of the coastal range. The turn off we were
looking for is about 2,500 feet above sea level. At around 2,000 feet
we started seeing snow. As we crested the small pass that marks the
turn off, our hopes were high that we would make it to the trailhead.
They were quickly dashed as we came around the corner and found two
trees lying in opposite directions across the front of the turn-off
road. There was also a two-foot drift of snow blocking the road. A
quick assessment of the area determined that there was no way we were
going to be able to get down that road in a vehicle. We thought about
turning around, but decided to stick to the mission anyway. It only
added an extra three miles to the hike. Only problem being it’s all
downhill on the way there and you know what that means on the way out.
We just chalked it up to being what it takes to get a wild winter
steelhead on a fly, and packed up our gear.

Everything is green in the coastal range this time of year. The
smells of the forest fill my nose. It’s a familiar but unexplainable
smell of trees, shrubs and even the dirt itself. The air was thick with
moisture and as I looked out over the canyon, some wispy clouds filled
the little spaces between the trees. The wind was blowing them in and
out of branches like ghosts flying through the treetops. Birds were
singing songs across the forest to each other. A squirrel peered out of
the trees in curiosity then ran off in a darting jerky gait.

We packed our food and supplies into our bags. Due to the snow and
wet conditions, we put on our waders and fishing boots and hit the
trail. After post holing through the snow, climbing over trees and
descending 2,000 feet with four days worth of supplies on our backs, we
finally reached the trailhead and the edge of the wilderness boundary.
It’s only a mile from there to where we first hit the river. Once on
the trail, the hiking conditions were even tougher. The downed trees
were hefty obstacles with such heavy packs on our backs. The trail is
cut into a hillside, so there is less room to move around the fallen
timber than on the road section. Every time we came to a downed tree,
we had to balance beam along the trunk, climb over branches, or duck
under a high spot. There were no stretches longer than 100 yards at a
time with no trees down. Sometimes there would just be one after
another. It was a tough mile. Still we pressed on in the name of
steelhead.

Now that we were off the road, out of the people zone and into the
wilderness, it started to become apparent that even though the forest
seemed devastated, it’s actually working perfectly. The old-growth
trees are still standing. Most of the downed trees were ten inches in
diameter or less. The old growth showed signs of a fire that had
happened in the canyon 10 years earlier. The new growth had been
thriving for a decade in the newly created niche of sun patches left by
the fire. In early January, a storm dropped large amounts of snow down
to almost sea level. The high winds that followed knocked down all the
trees that were loaded with the heavy snow. It’s a great way to
naturally thin the forest. The downed trees were providing new
nutrients for the previously stripped ground as well as habitat for
thousands of forest creatures. The old-growth trees were still standing
tall and proud. They watch over the hills as nature provides for them.
For us, it was as inhospitable as can be.

The hike soon turned into a strength and endurance test. With every
step it became harder to press on. Thoughts of friends and failed
relationships filled my mind as I kept placing one foot in front of the
other. We didn’t talk much at all during the hike. Somehow I find a way
to reach a zone in my head where I try to think about as much stuff as
possible to take my thoughts off what I’m actually doing. Great
attention is needed for every obstacle we encounter but my thoughts
keep me somewhere else. It’s easy to drift off and not let yourself be
fully encompassed in the moment. Only here it’s not a TV, blinking
lights or music that serves to distract one. It’s the drudgery of my
own thoughts.

Only when we stop and my breath slows down enough that the sound of
it leaves my ears and the sounds of my boots and waders and pack
rubbing on each other dissipate, that the sounds of the forest really
begin to take my attention. It’s there in that moment that I start to
feel the true freedom of wilderness. I can hear the wind through the
leaves. It whispers and talks with words I’m not conditioned to hear. I
hear the sound of the water dancing with the rocks and trapping air
into fleeting bubbles. It too is speaking and I try to listen. Animals
talk back and forth. Birds, squirrels, and insects all chime in at
different times. They are all having conversations that seem like
random chirps and whistles to me. I try to really take the time to just
be quiet and listen. It’s like learning a new language. I long to know
what they are all saying. It just takes time to know all the words. The
farther I am from the distracting sounds of people and our equipment,
the more I feel like I’m starting to hear what nature is trying to say.
I feel the most at peace when I know I’m in a place that is unaffected
by the hands of man, where the natural process still flows. I can feel
its power and it makes me contemplate my place in nature.

My moment of profound bliss and introspective contemplation is
quickly shattered by my brother reminding us of the reality that it’s
getting dark and it’s going to be cold, so we should start setting up a
camp and gathering some wood for a fire. We’ve only just reached the
main stem of the river. After some scouting, we decide to camp on the
far side of a feeder creek. The crossing takes some concentration and
the aid of a sturdy branch. The water is waist deep and flowing pretty
swift. It’s hard to balance on the slippery rocks with such a heavy
pack. We set up our camp on a flat bluff overlooking the confluence of
the creek and the main stem. There’s some flat ground surrounded by a
few small fir trees and the remains of an old fire ring. A huge old
live canyon oak tree hangs over the campsite from the hillside above.
Everything is covered in moss. I ask if we can camp on the gravel in a
clearing in hope of getting some morning sun. Eugene insists this site
will be better if it starts raining hard because we can set up tarps
between the trees.

The first thing I notice as I approach the river is a set of bear
tracks in an otherwise untouched strip of sand. Some movement catches
my eye and I focus on a rough skin newt. He’s moving so slow it’s
almost tedious to watch. He blends almost perfect with the color of the
rotting sticks he’s crawling near. I might have stepped on him if I
hadn’t bent down to look at the bear’s prints. I was glad our path
crossed and I bid him good day.

My first good look at the river and I’m stoked. There is a lot of
water in the river this time of year, but the water is pretty clear and
I can see the bottom in places I determined to be at least eight feet
deep. A gravel bar has built up where the creek pours into the main
stem. It breaks the current well and looks to be a good lay for a
passing steelhead. I gather sticks for the fire as quickly as possible,
hoping to get a few casts in before dark.

Catching a wild, winter run, pacific coast steelhead on a fly is
becoming a harder proposition every year. Some have compared it to a
lightning strike, others to finding a gold nugget. You have a better
chance to get one if you go to one of the rivers that have a hatchery
program. But to me, it’s just not the same experience. In the systems
where there is no hatchery to supplement the runs, the fish have to
rely on the health of the headwaters. Many factors can come into play
with these systems and how they affect fish returns. Erosion is one of
the biggest problems. Logging, road building and mining are some of the
biggest contributors to erosion. In dam-controlled systems, the
reservoir catches most of the sediment and it slowly fills the lake.
The river below maintains a steady flow with clean gravel but the fish
can only go as far as the dam, missing out sometimes on hundreds of
miles of otherwise useful spawning habitat and potential fly water. In
non-controlled systems the sediment affects the fish and their spawning
habitat daily. It’s a sensitive relationship between nature and man,
and over time the fish are losing. The fish have many hurtles to deal
with while on their journey in the ocean, and now it’s becoming tougher
to find the good conditions that wild steelhead and salmon need to
spawn. Headwaters are an important factor in wild fish reproduction and
a good way to determine the health of a system. The time it takes a
river to clear up after a rainstorm is a good sign of a clean
headwaters system. That’s why we picked this particular river. Its
headwaters flow completely out of roadless wilderness. The river clears
up quicker than most other rivers on the coast and, in the upper
stretches, is small enough to cover with a fly rod.

To me, the wild winter steelhead is like a precious gem. That
silvery slab has more draw than a chunk of platinum. I’d hike up hills
and camp in the rain just to see one. Catching one ethically, on fly
gear, and getting to touch it, is one of the greatest feelings on
earth. Catching one on a fly is a hard trick to play on a fish that is
for the most part, not interested in eating. Winter fish aren’t like
summers that stay in the river for a while and need to feed to keep up
their energy. Winter steelies come in, do their thing and are on their
way back to the rich feeding grounds of the ocean in a matter of days.
In a system like this you're lucky to even cross paths with one. Even
if you do see a fish, it certainly doesn’t mean your going to catch it.
After peering at the river and making a few casts at the confluence, I
went to bed that night optimistic that it might happen on this trip.

A sliver of morning light peered through the trees and touched my
face. I awoke to the sounds of the forest in all its morning glory. It
wasn’t hard to get up when the possibility of a fish waited. There were
a few small clouds in the sky, but it looked as if it was going to be a
great day. We all decided to hike up river deeper into the wilderness
towards the confluence of the two major creeks that formed the main
river. The river sits in a canyon that is pretty steep on both sides.
It’s lined with big boulders and trees. There’s no trail at all. Every
rock is trying to twist your ankle. Every fallen tree is trying to make
you trip or slip. Most of the rocks on the bank are covered in bright
green mosses of different lengths and textures. There are small creeks
and seeps pouring into the river off the hillsides. The ecosystem is
peaceful, majestic and, most importantly, intact. Everything from that
part of the river up is natural, wild and unaffected by the hands of
man. In the small sand beaches between the boulders there were mountain
lion, bear, otter, raccoon and deer tracks.

Much of the river here is rapids and not great holding water for
fish. We had to hike a good 3/4 of a mile before we came to the first
long stretch of slower water. There, in the shallow tail out of a long
run, I spotted the first fish. As Justin and Eugene showed up, I
pointed it out. The water was very clear. It was hard to tell exactly
how big the fish was, but I could tell he was pretty small by winter
steelhead standards. He looked to be about five pounds or so. I tried
to position myself upstream and make a cast. The river was lined with
overhanging branches and there was only one small place where I could
even make a roll cast through an opening in the branches. I stripped
out the right amount of line and made a good cast. As soon as the line
started to drift down towards the fish, he split off like a rocket into
deeper water and disappeared. Over the next mile or so, we spotted
several more fish and took turns making shots at them, all with the
same result. Then we came to a huge cliff face and had to hike way up
into the forest, over all the fallen trees and then back down again to
the river.

Finally we came to a beautiful pool with a nice long gravel tail
out. There in the gravel was a female steeling sitting on a fresh dug
red. As we sat quietly and watched, a very large male became visible
sitting about 15 to 20 feet back off the red. After a few minutes two
smaller males became visible as well. Soon they started making attempts
to get into the red and rub up on the female. Each time the larger male
would chase them away, sometimes biting them on the tail or flexing his
mouth at them. We watched this dance continue for several minutes while
I filmed the fish. After watching for a while we figured this might be
our best shot. It was a good bet that in this situation, swinging a fly
behind the red might get one of the challengers to bite and potentially
do the mating pair a favor. I stripped out my line and again made a
good cast well upstream. As soon as my line hit the water all four fish
shot off like rockets. It was incredible how spooked they were. They
don’t see any people up there at all. It’s uncanny how they sense
danger from just the slight splash of a fly line. I tried a few more
Hail Mary casts into the deepness of the pool, but to no avail. We only
had a matter of minutes to spend trying to fish at each pool. The hike
we had set ourselves up for was long and we didn’t want to get stuck
out after dark. We had to reach a trail still another mile up river and
the light was waning.

Eventually we reached the pool where a trail that was several
hundred yards up off the river, on the canyon wall, dipped back down
near the river. This pool was distinguishable by a large creek that
flowed in on the opposite side of the river. There in the shallow
water, over a gravel bar, we spotted two more fish. They were sitting
near motionless. Both were suspended a few inches off the bottom and
slowly wagging their tails in the soft current. It was Justin’s turn to
have a shot. He stripped out his line and made a good cast well up
stream. As his green line drifted down near the fish, they too shot off
like rockets. At that same moment, it started to rain. It was a sinking
ending to a hard day. We found the trial and started the long hike
through the forest back towards our camp. It was almost as hard as
hiking near the river. The downed trees made it a challenge. As the
rain fell on my head, I tried to just keep placing one foot in front of
the other, my thoughts turned back to the fish. It seemed like all the
elements were working against us. With the heavy rain, I knew that was
probably our last shot at fishing.

It rained hard all night and in the morning the river was rushing
hard and off color. We decided to stay anyway and spent the following
morning exploring down river. After noon, I hiked far up river to where
I had seen the first couple fish the day before. The river was a whole
different beast this day. It was dark and fast and scary. Our window
for fishing had closed.

The next morning we packed up camp and started the trudge home. As
we hiked back up the hill, again my thoughts turned back to the fish.
At first I was upset that I didn’t get to catch one. Then I realized
how lucky I was to have had the chance to see those fish in their
native habitat doing what they have been doing for thousands of years.
Wilderness is more valuable than any possession I own. I felt so
blessed to see them in this environment. Just being there was enough
for me. As population grows and climate changes, there is going to be
an increasing strain on what remains of the habitat needed for these
fish to live and thrive. As fish populations dwindle, they will become
an icon of wilderness. Steelhead will become a symbol of a healthy and
functioning aquatic ecosystem. In my opinion, they should be more
valuable than gold, platinum or oil. They should be placed in front of
mines, roads, timber sales and this year's fiscal earnings. Water is
one of the main elements that form our existence. Most of our body is
made of it. If we don’t drink clean water almost everyday, we will die.
If we can’t take care of the fresh water river systems that support
wild steelhead then we are not working as good stewards of this planet.
If we let wild steelhead fade out, we won’t be far behind.

Comments

Even if you're not an angler, I highly recommend taking the time to read this story. It comes from Mikey Wier, a professional snowboarder and fly fishing guide who founded Burl Productions. Mikey's words are thick with the aura of appreciation that comes from having just returned from a Wilderness area. As you read this tale, there's a good chance you'll think back on your last trip into untamed nature and begin to relive the feeling while sitting in front of your computer -- a wonderful thing indeed. From Mikey:

It’s 6 am and I’m going over a mental checklist of things I “need” to survive in the wilderness for a few days. I’m always afraid I might forget one of the things that will make me think "oh, crap" later. Headlamp, camera battery, bivy sack, enough food. We’re on the road at 6:30 and by then it’s too late to worry any more. The cold morning air fills my lungs and colors my breath into cloudy vapors. Speeding along in a car, the outside world passes fast. Even while looking out the window, it’s easy to miss the small details, like a bug crawling on a branch, or a salamander swimming in a creek pool. I can’t wait to reach the trail head. I’ve been indoors too much this month and my body longs for the sun and crisp air. It’s the call of the wild.

[All photos by Justin Baillie]

Time in the car passes with catch up conversations between my brother, Eugene and I. Justin Baillie, who made the drive from Tahoe to Southern Oregon with me the day before, was just getting to know Eugene. We shared the research each one of us had done in preparation for the trip. Eugene produced some great photos he had printed off of Goggle Earth. We looked over the topography and bends in the river. It looked passable on paper. Conditions and circumstances had already thwarted us from reaching the headwaters on two different attempts.